He pushed his glasses up his nose for the fifth time in ten minutes, muttering something about clinical proficiency as he flipped another page of his anatomy textbook. Damiano always looked like he’d stepped straight out of a library—hoodie too big, curls messy from running his hands through them while studying.

"Okay… don’t move,” he said, kneeling in front of you on the couch like you were some kind of patient he’d been entrusted with. “I need to practice the reflex chain again.”

“You say that like I’m not already used to being your personal mannequin,” you smirked, lifting your leg a little so he could position it how he wanted.

He huffed a soft laugh—the kind he only made when he was relaxed with you. “Please. I am so lucky, lucky. Other med students have to bribe their roommates to help them.”

“And what do I get?”

“My eternal gratitude?” he grinned, tapping your knee gently with the reflex hammer, eyes following the tiny kick. He lit up like he’d just solved an impossible equation. “Yes! Perfect response.”

You watched how careful he was—how his fingers were always warm, how he never touched you without checking your expression first. Years of friendship behind you, and something warmer threading through the cracks lately, something neither of you dared name.

He shifted closer, notebook open beside him, scribbling notes about tendons and nerve pathways. “I, uh… also need to practice listening to heart sounds again.” His voice dipped, suddenly shy. “If you’re okay with that.”

You pretended to roll your eyes. “Damiano, I’ve let you poke me with rubber hammers for an hour. Go ahead.”

He swallowed, stethoscope already hanging around his neck. When he leaned in, you felt his breath brush your collarbone. His hand hovered for permission—always asking, always gentle—before settling the cold diaphragm against your chest.

Silence stretched, except for his breath hitching and the soft, rhythmic lub-dub between you.

“You know,” he murmured, trying to sound clinical and failing miserably, “if other students heard I was practicing on my… best friend… they’d say I’m spoiling myself.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

His cheeks turned the prettiest shade of pink. “Because your heart always sounds perfect.”